


Same Time, Same Place

by citrinesunset



Category: Inception
Genre: Blackmail, Dream Sex, M/M, coerced sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur blackmails Eames into using his forging abilities for dream sex. Eames decides to turn the tables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Time, Same Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually an old fic. I wrote it in early 2011 for [this](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17044.html?thread=34481812#t34481812) kink meme prompt: "Arthur blackmails Eames into forging women for him to fuck in dreams. Eames uses it as an opportunity to get Arthur completely under his thumb. Eventually, Eames appears as himself and Arthur learns what it means to be truly fucked."
> 
> This was my first fic in the Inception fandom, so I'm a little nostalgic about it. I never de-anoned on it. I always kind of wanted to, but never got around to it. But now I wanted to re-read it and post it to my accounts for posterity if nothing else. Just bear in mind that this is an older fic of mine. I cleaned it up a little and added a couple lines, but I didn't want to alter it too much. After three years, there are things I still like about this fic and things that I would change if I were to revise it. But I don't think I'm going to do that at this point.

Eames liked his pride, but he could set it aside if he had to. He could see how that might be misinterpreted, how someone might see it as a weakness. But it was really just self-preservation.

It was usually people who cared about their pride too much who died young, stupid, and bloody. Eames, he planned to retire someday as an old man, rich and as unscarred as possible.

Arthur tracked him down a couple months after the Fischer job. Eames was back in Mombasa. Not permanently. He'd just gone back to finish up his business there, but now he was killing time and not in any hurry to leave.

"What brings you all the way out here, Arthur?"

Arthur had shown up unexpectedly at the apartment Eames was staying in. What struck Eames was how much Arthur was sweating, and how red he was around his ears. Either he was very sensitive to the heat, or he was nervous. Eames could believe either one.

"I found out about something."

Eames leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked. "You gonna share?"

Arthur looked down at the table. "You remember that job you did with me and Cobb a few years ago, when we were hired by Pullman?"

Eames shrugged. "Standard corporate espionage. Nothing remarkable. But I remember, yeah."

"I just learned you did a side job we didn't know about. According to my sources, a rival company gave you fifty-thousand dollars to relay the information _we_ extracted."

"Well, you guys weren't paying me much."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You admit it, then?"

"Don't have to, do I? You wouldn't be here if you didn't have decent evidence." He leaned forward and sighed. "Look, if it's about the money, I can give you at least half that right now. No hurt feelings?"

"This isn't about the money, Eames, or about hurt feelings. It's about a little something called integrity. And the fact that if Pullman had found out, we all could have been killed."

Eames could think of a lot of things to say to Arthur lecturing him on integrity, but he decided to hear Arthur out.

"Now," Arthur said, "I was going to tell Cobb about this, but I thought I'd talk to you first. I thought we could come to an agreement."

"Go on."

Arthur didn't look at Eames while he explained what he had in mind. He kept his eyes down and picked at his thumbnail. Eames listened in silence, not sure if this should surprise him or not.

Arthur took a folded piece paper out of his pocket and flattened it out on the table. It was a picture of a model that he'd torn out of a magazine.

"I was thinking a woman like this, maybe."

Eames weighed his options. The idea of hitting Arthur over the head with something occurred to him. So did calling Arthur's bluff and letting him tell Cobb whatever the hell he wanted. It wasn't like he lacked options. He never lacked options. The question, as always, was what would be easiest for him? What would be the least painful?

He'd done worse things to fix his messes. Forging himself into a woman and having sex wasn't any worse. The fact that it was sex, well, what difference did it make? Really?

He picked up the picture and said, "All right, we can do business."

 

 

* * *

 

 

When it was all done, he wasn't so sure anymore. He lay naked under the sheet on the hotel bed, next to Arthur. They weren't touching, and Arthur seemed as content not to look at Eames as Eames was not to look at him.

Eames's thong was somewhere by his feet. He decided not to bother retrieving it. Instead, he sat up and reached for his black dress, which was crumpled on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked.

"Getting dressed," Eames said, looking over his shoulder. "I assume we’re finished."

Arthur frowned and looked at his watch. "We’ve got twenty-five minutes left in the dream."

"Just enough time for me to find the hotel bar and get a drink." He stood up and pulled the dress over his head. He combed his long blonde hair with his fingers.

He looked at the disappointed look on Arthur’s face and clicked his tongue. "Not my fault you didn’t pace yourself."

Arthur didn't respond.

Eames picked up his handbag and headed for the door. "I’ll see you in a few. Can’t say it was a pleasure doing business with you."

When he woke up twenty-five minutes later, he was in his own bedroom, back in his real body, lying on the bed. Arthur blinked awake in the chair in front of him, and removed the IV from his arm. He looked at his crotch and squirmed.

"I assume it was good for you?" Eames asked.

Arthur didn't meet his eyes. "It was what I asked for."

"Good."

 

 

* * *

 

 

When they'd been in L.A. after the Fischer job, on the last day before Eames caught a flight out of the country, he and Arthur had had lunch.

He'd asked Arthur what he planned to do next.

Arthur had shrugged and said, "Depends on Cobb, I guess. I'm not sure if he's going to stay in the business now or not. He hasn't told me."

At the time, Eames would have bet that Cobb would never take another job. He wouldn't have blamed him for retiring.

But six weeks after Arthur came to Mombasa, Eames got a call from Cobb.

After what went down with Arthur, he didn't know if he should take Cobb's job offer. Maybe there was even some guilt at hearing Cobb's voice. Then again, Eames also knew that if he said no, he'd regret it. He wasn't stupid; he was willing to take a risk.

Arthur acted like nothing had happened. He was efficient as ever, even when briefing Eames on the job and the mark. Eames could handle that. He was a good actor, too. But when the job was over, Arthur passed Eames a folded piece of paper.

Eames unfolded it to find a color picture of a lingerie model, a woman with chin-length brown hair and large, dark eyes. On the back, in Arthur’s handwriting, it said, "7:00 tonight. You know where I’m staying."

In retrospect, Eames felt like an idiot for believing it would be a one-off. He knew better. Maybe he hadn't thought Arthur would have the nerve. Clearly, he'd underestimated him.

The dream was almost exactly the same as last time. Eames could tell some details were different, because he was used to evaluating his surroundings. The painting in the hotel room was different. The carpet was a lighter shade of beige. But it was almost the same.

Arthur looked him up and down. "You look very. . .nice," he said.

Eames tossed his handbag on the table. "You don't have to sound surprised. Though, you didn't give me a lot to work with."

Arthur frowned. "Well, I think she's pretty."

"Oh, she's gorgeous. But I'm not going to show up in a dream wearing nothing but a bustier and a garter belt, am I?"

Forging people wasn't actually that difficult. Sure, it was a talent you either had or didn't have, but if you had it, it wasn't very hard to use. The challenge was in making it believable. That was where a lot of people settled for "good enough." They figured most people never noticed the details in dreams anyway, so why bother? Eames liked his work too much to cut corners. Maybe he was a little proud.

In any case, Eames knew the importance of dressing his part, even if Arthur wasn't worth the effort.

Arthur sort of cocked his head and blinked before he reached out to touch the fuchsia satin of Eames's dress.

"You look very nice," he repeated. He stepped closer and awkwardly gave Eames a peck on the lips.

Eames pushed past him and sat on the bed. He slipped off his heels and leaned back. "Clock is ticking."

Arthur didn't seem to want to touch Eames. Instead, he directed him with murmurs and little hand movements that Eames interrupted as, "Take off the dress, please," and "Lie down."

Arthur kept his eyes closed while they fucked. He braced his arms on the bed and kept their bodies as far apart as possible. His thrusts were slow and shallow.

For all Arthur's effort to get this, Eames thought Arthur might as well have forgone the blackmail and stuck with his hand. Maybe if Arthur wasn't enjoying it, he'd put a stop to this blackmail foolishness.

Eames squirmed, and Arthur opened his eyes.

"Did I hurt you?"

Eames huffed. "It'd take more than you've got to do that."

Arthur scowled, but closed his eyes and continued. Eames didn’t move any more until he'd finished.

Afterward, there were ten minutes to spare, and Eames spent them looking out the window at the city outside, with his back to Arthur.

"Just out of curiosity," he asked, "how did you find out in the first place?"

"I’m not sure I should reveal my sources."

Eames could see Arthur’s reflection in the glass. He’d put his shirt back on, but kept the covers on the bed pulled up to his chest.

"Let’s just say I was approached by someone you pissed off," Arthur said. "You should consider yourself fortunate; they wanted to speak directly to Cobb, but I made sure they didn't."

"Oh, I’m bloody grateful. I love being blackmailed about stuff I did, what was it? Three years ago?"

Eames turned around. Arthur squirmed and crossed his arms.

"You’re being very dramatic about this," he said.

"Then what do you call what you’re doing?"

Arthur looked at his watch. "I’m doing you a favor, Mr. Eames. I'm just asking for a little reciprocity."

Eames’s shook his head in disbelief. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Reciprocity, Eames?"

"I thought you and Cobb were friends. You care more about getting what you want than telling him about me?"

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Why did you do it, anyway?"

"Same reason anyone does," Eames said with a chuckle. "Got greedy and stupid."

That was all there was to it, really. That, and Eames hadn't known Cobb all that well three years ago.

At the time, pissing off Cobb or even Arthur had been his least concern. He was more concerned about their employer discovering what he'd done. But since then, Eames had come to see the value in having good professional relationships.

It'd be a shame to fuck that up now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Why is it always the same?" Eames asked once. "This isn't a memory, is it?"

He meant the hotel, or the room at least. It was always, _always_ the same room, more or less.

Arthur glared at him. "Do I look like an idiot? I don't build from memory."

"Fine, fine. Forget I suggested it."

Eames wasn't sure he believed him. There was something strange about this whole deal.

Eames liked to think he could read people as a rule, but he couldn't fathom why Arthur was putting in so much effort for, well, _this_. What exactly was stopping him from having random one night stands in real life, with people who weren't being blackmailed into it? Arthur had to want more than just this. Everyone wanted something more in dreams.

"Guess I just don't get it – if it were me, I'd switch it up sometimes. I mean, you could build anything you wanted."

Arthur was ignoring him now. He'd turned his back to Eames and was struggling with his cufflinks.

Eames sat on the bed and let himself fall back on it with a sigh. He was cold – the hair was standing up on his arms and his feet were freezing in the little strappy heels he wore. It could have been the dream, but he blamed the air conditioning in Arthur's apartment.

He didn't actually care if this was a memory or not. Well, maybe he did, because it was creepy to think this might be Arthur's way of recapturing some failed romance. Except if that were the case, it wouldn't be a different woman each time, would it? Otherwise, it didn't matter to Eames one way or another.

He was just curious.

Arthur sighed and looked at his watch. "Damn it, we're wasting time."

"You're the one who can't get his cufflinks off."

Arthur was in a bad mood tonight. When Eames had shown up at his apartment, Arthur had been arguing with his credit card company on the phone.

When Eames had tried to break the ice by asking, "What's with the air conditioning? You hiding some dead bodies in here?" Arthur responded with even less humor than Eames would have expected.

Then, when they got in the dream, Arthur said Eames's hair looked messy. No compliments on his forgery.

Eames sat up and unbuckled the ankle straps on his shoes. He took one of them off and considered throwing it at the back of Arthur's head.

If anyone was entitled to a bad mood, it was Eames. He'd been stuck in the States ever since his last job. He would have left by now, but Arthur had "requested" that he stay. Just for a while. But even if he hopped a plane, he imagined Arthur would just follow him.

Arthur's indifference, though, that was really pushing it. Eames had outdone himself. Arthur had given him a horrible picture. Absolutely horrible. He didn't seem to understand that if a picture was too washed out, too dark, too digitally altered, or only showed half of a person's face, Eames didn't have enough to work with. It didn't matter how beautiful the person in it was.

Yet, Eames thought this was some of his best work in months. Arthur had finally given him a photograph so bad that it let him get creative. He liked this forgery. He liked the smoky pitch to his voice.

Arthur rolled up his sleeves and took off his waistcoat. He finally joined Eames on the bed. He put a hand on Eames's waist, just below his breasts, and kissed him. Eames kept his eyes open and his lips closed.

When Arthur pulled away, he looked annoyed. "Would it kill you, Eames, to pretend to have some enthusiasm?"

Eames rolled onto his back. "Yes, it would, actually. Well, not literally, of course."

He remembered something and chuckled. "You know, my first real job was working as a bartender at this piece of shit pub. One night, this guy threw a fit because I hadn't mixed his drink well enough. 'This is crap!' he said. 'You shouldn't be doing this job!' And I said, 'Yeah, well, I'm not being paid enough to do any better.'"

"Is that it, then?" Arthur asked, his voice cold. "I'm not _paying_ you enough? Funny, I thought it was supposed to work the other way around."

Eames shrugged. Maybe he was pushing it, but he didn't care right now. "You know, it's all fine and good for you to say you want enthusiasm from me, but what about you?"

"What about me?"

Eames laughed. "Last I checked, women don't usually like being treated like those cheap blow-up sex dolls. They're not made of plastic. They like a bit of pleasure when they fuck. Orgasms, even."

He expected Arthur to get defensive. He wouldn't have blamed him. Instead, Arthur looked unsure, and maybe even embarrassed.

"I know _that_. I've never had any complaints before. Really. I just...I didn't realize we were doing it like that."

Eames didn't ask what Arthur thought they were doing, or weren't doing.

Arthur started tapping his fingers on the bed. "You really think I'm bad? I feel like I should prove myself, now."

"If that's what you want."

Arthur nodded. "Yeah."

He put a hand on Eames's knee and slide it under his skirt and up his thigh. Eames felt his fingers through his lacy knickers.

Arthur withdrew his hand and lifted Eames's skirt. He grasped the waistband of the knickers and Eames lifted his hips so Arthur could pull them off.

"I like this," Arthur said. "I just didn't think you wanted it, that's all."

His voice was pleased, almost tender, and Eames wanted to roll his eyes. Now the deluded bastard thought they were lovers. That was the last thing Eames needed. But on second thought....

Arthur knelt between Eames's legs. He leaned down and Eames felt his cheek against his thigh, his nose against his pubis.

Eames had never tried this before.

And Arthur, he was...good. He actually was. A little nervous, maybe, but skilled. He knew what to do with his tongue. Eames was glad, because it made it easy enough to moan a few times and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

All he could think about was how easy it'd been to get Arthur to do something. He'd been approaching this problem the wrong way.

Arthur sat up and undid his belt. When he climbed on top of Eames, he kissed Eames's neck. Eames turned his head to let him.

He saw where his error was. He'd been too quick to accept that Arthur was in control.

"That was much better," he said with a smile when Arthur was done. He pressed his foot against Arthur's leg. "How much time do we have left?"

Arthur looked. "About a half hour."

Eames didn't say anything for a minute. He didn't know if he should wait.

"You know," he said, "you can talk to me. It's not like I'm in a position to repeat anything, am I?"

"Sure, but I didn't ask for a _therapist_ , Mr. Eames."

Eames chuckled. "No, I don't mean like that. I mean, you can tell me what you want. I'm not going to judge, and you might as well. No use in wasting our time, is there?"

"I've been very clear about what I want."

"All right. But if there was anything else, you could tell me."

Arthur paused. "Like what? What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you wanted something _specific_. Maybe something you can't find in real life."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Thought you didn't care."

"I spoke hastily. I know it's in my best interest to make you happy."

For a moment, Arthur's eyes were suspicious. But then it passed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur didn't contact Eames again for almost two weeks.

Ordinarily, Eames would have welcomed it. Would have gotten on a plane and disappeared. He considered it every morning when he woke up and realized another day had passed without doing the smart thing.

His pride was getting the better of him, and he knew he should feel ashamed of that. But he had an idea. Probably a bad idea, but an idea.

A bad idea was the hardest to get rid of. If Eames thought about it, there wasn't much use in trying to get rid of it, was there?

Then, one night, there was a knock on the door of the cheap apartment Eames was renting, and Eames knew it would be Arthur. Eames was sitting at the table, pen in hand, writing carefully in handwriting that wasn't his. He had the good sense to put away his pen and notepad before answering the door.

It'd been raining all evening, and Arthur carried a dripping umbrella in one hand. He had a PASIV device in the other.

"You couldn't have called before dropping by?"

"Sorry," Arthur said, stepping inside without invitation, "I wasn't getting good reception in this weather. I thought I'd take a gamble that you'd be in."

Eames bet he didn't even try to call, but he didn't say anything. Arthur pulled a picture out of his pocket and handed it to him. Eames looked at it, huffed, and shook his head.

"Sorry, mate. Too little notice."

Arthur frowned. He got the suspicious look in his eyes that he got whenever he didn't like what Eames told him. "You never needed much notice before."

"I'm not sure you understand my work well enough to judge how much time I need."

Arthur seemed to consider that. He really didn't know. That gave Eames a lot of power.

"Well, give it a try."

Eames nodded but said, "Sure, but no promises."

Eames's dinner, takeout from the Chinese place around the corner, was on the table still. He closed up the Styrofoam container and stuck it in the mini fridge. Then he made a show of studying the picture while Arthur set up the PASIV.

Once in the dream, he didn't try to forge himself into the woman Arthur wanted this time. Instead, he made himself into the last woman, the one he'd been so proud of.

Arthur frowned when he saw him.

"Sorry," Eames said, "this is the best I could manage."

"You can manage that, but you can't manage what I asked for?"

"This is more familiar. It's fresher in my mind. That's all." He reached out and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I’m sorry, baby," he said softly.

Any skepticism in Arthur's expression started to melt away. "It's...all right, I suppose. You _are_ lovely."

Eames smiled in a way he meant to be disarming. "Why thank you, Arthur."

He walked into the room and flopped onto the familiar bed. He bounced a little before he lay against the fluffy pillows and planted the soles of his boots on the duvet. He wrapped one of his blonde curls around his finger.

"You know," Eames said, "I rather like this girl. I think she should have a name. Justine, maybe. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure I have an opinion."

"And she needs a story. Like, I studied communications at university. And I'm American. I grew up in Texas."

Arthur scoffed. "Your accent doesn't sound very Texan to me."

"Give me some credit, all right? I'm making this up as I go along."

Arthur sat down on the very edge of the bed. He moved carefully like he always did, as though Eames was a bomb and might explode if touched or jostled the wrong way.

Eames spread his legs. His skirt hitched up his thighs and he poked Arthur in the back with a knee. Arthur rubbed his eyes.

"What's wrong now?" Eames asked with a sigh, worried Arthur was in another of his moods.

"I'm starting to think this wasn't a good idea."

Eames propped himself up on his elbows. A month ago, he would have taken this small sign of regret and been pleased for it. The right word, and he was sure he could get Arthur to give up on this forever.

But it wasn't just about that anymore.

"Maybe you just want something different," Eames said. He wasn't ready for Arthur to give up. His mind raced trying to think of how to keep Arthur for just a little longer, but he kept his voice even and contemplative.

"Yusuf told me once," Eames said carefully, "about a man who fell in love a projection. He had a whole married life in his dreams. He went under every day to be with her."

Arthur took off his jacket and stuck a finger in the knot of his tie to loosen it. "That's a bit pathetic, isn't it?" He paused and added, with a small, incredulous smile, "Is _that_ what you think I want?"

"I don't know. Not marriage, maybe. But I could understand. A life like this doesn't give you much chance to date or settle down. If that's what you wanted –"

"It isn't," Arthur said firmly. He turned so he was facing Eames. He curled a leg up on the bed. "I can get dates, Eames. I just spent three days with an old girlfriend upstate. I'm not _lonely_."

"Good for you."

"I'm serious."

Arthur stood up and walked across the room. Eames sat up, thinking Arthur was going to leave, but Arthur didn't. He stopped and turned around.

"You don't get why I want this, do you? It's not great for you."

"What? The sex?"

Arthur ran a hand through his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut and it looked like he might cry. Fucking hell.

"There isn't anything like it," he said. "I'm not saying real life isn't good. It is. I still like sex in reality."

So that was it. There was some defensiveness in his voice, and Eames wondered just how much Arthur was fooling himself.

"But it's better in a dream?" Eames asked.

"It's sharper. More intense. You have to see _that_."

Eames stood and walked over to Arthur. He pushed himself back into character and placed a hand on Arthur's chest.

"I want you to show me," he whispered.

"Eames. . ."

"Shhh. I’m Justine right now, remember? I want you to show me why you want this so bad. Convince me." He planted a soft, wet kiss on Arthur's cheek. He parted his lips and blew warm breath on his skin. "Come on, let's go on the bed."

Eames took Arthur's hand, and Arthur followed. Eames took off his boots and sat back down on the bed. He pulled off his pink tank top and unhooked his bra.

He had wonderful tits. It wasn't arrogance to think so, not when he'd consciously made them that way. Right now, the nipples were very pert, and he played with one of them with a thumb and forefinger while he touched the hem of his skirt with the other hand.

"Why don't you finish?" he asked.

Arthur, who'd been watching, sat on the bed and reached to undo the fastening of Eames's skirt. His fingers were cold, but quick. He pulled the skirt down and off, and then slid off Eames's fishnet stockings and his thong. He ran a hand up Eames's thigh, higher and higher until he slipped a finger inside him. Eames thrust his hips and moaned.

"Now take off your clothes. I want to see you."

Arthur didn't hesitate. He yanked his belt loose and threw it on the floor, where the buckle hit the wall. He rushed out of his shirt and trousers. He still had his socks on, and was still working his way out of his boxers, when he descended on Eames. He stuck his tongue down Eames's mouth.

Eames broke away from the kiss, but he put his lips to Arthur's ear and said, "Fuck me. Go on. I'm ready."

He dragged his nails down Arthur's back. He ran long, feminine fingers through Arthur's hair. He made the most sensational sounds of pleasure, gasping and crying out until Arthur silenced him with kisses.

"I think I understand," he said afterward.

"Really?" Arthur sounded surprised.

Eames nodded. He was curled up against Arthur in the bed. "Really. I think I can see why you like it so much." He ran a finger down Arthur's chest. "How did you ever find out in the first place? Did you sleep with a projection?"

Eames had slept with projections before. It never led to him getting a taste for dream sex.

Arthur shook his head. "It's not the same with projections. It needs to be a person. Cobb and I, we worked with this woman a couple years ago. She and I went on a few dates. It wasn't serious, but we experimented a little. She didn't really see the appeal, actually. To be honest, I was wondering if it was just me."

"Oh, it's not just you. Trust me. She just couldn't see it."

Arthur looked at him. He touched Eames's long brown hair and pushed it behind his ear. Then he looked at his watch.

"We only have a few more minutes before we wake up. I wish we had more time."

"Well, there's next time, right?"

When they woke up, Arthur said, "I'd like to do that again next week. If you could, I'd like to see Justine again."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Somnacin was still too new and too uncommon to yield many studies on its long-term use. But every so often, Eames would come across stories of people who claimed the drug messed with their minds or ruined their lives.

Eames didn't think there was anything inherently dangerous about Somnacin, or shared dreaming. The main issue, he thought, was that some people got too experimental for their own good. They messed too much with their own minds.

Eames, he did his job and didn't waste too much time getting curious about what limbo was like, or whether sex could feel better in a dream than in reality.

A couple days before he was supposed to meet Arthur again, he sat on the bed in his temporary apartment and called Yusuf.

"Do you realize what time it is in Mombasa?" Yusuf asked.

"About midnight? Maybe one?"

"You're supposed to say, 'Sorry, Yusuf, forgot it was so late there. Hope I didn't wake you.'"

Eames chuckled. "I didn't wake you. You're always up working."

"What's so important you couldn't have e-mailed me?"

"You kidding? You take forever to respond to your email."

Yusuf didn't say anything for a moment, and Eames wondered if he'd lost the connection.

He was about to check if Yusuf was still there when the other man said, "You've gotten some pieces of mail at your apartment. I've collected it so it doesn't pile up. And I've gone by the place a couple times."

Eames wasn't sure why he'd given Yusuf a key. He'd taken all his things with him when he left Mombasa. Nonetheless, he liked hearing that Yusuf had been keeping an eye on the place. It was good to know his apartment was waiting for him. He would have to take Yusuf out drinking when he went back, as a thank-you.

"You haven't opened my mail, have you?"

"Of course not. But if I did, would I tell you?"

"No, I suppose not. By the way, I pulled off a great forgery last week. Maybe one of the best I've done."

"Is that why you've called?" Yusuf said, his voice tinged with playful annoyance. "To brag about your work?"

"Why not? I've let you brag to me about chemistry."

"Fair enough. So what made this job so great?"

Eames frowned. Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned it. Now that he had, he didn't know what he could say about it. "I managed to con someone who should have known they were being conned," he said, after considering it. "You don't get that often. It's always a rush."

But he didn't think he could risk talking about it any more than that, and it wasn't actually what he'd called about. "Speaking of mail," he said, "I've sent you a package. Be on the lookout for it."

"What is it?"

Eames clicked his tongue. "Here's the thing, I want you to promise you won't open it."

"Why? What _is_ it?" Yusuf sounded a little panicked now, probably imagining any number of things.

"Nothing that will get you in trouble," Eames said. "It's just something I want someone to have, just in case. If anything were to happen to me, open it and do what you need to with it."

"Is it like...a will?"

"Just hang onto it, okay? And don't open it?"

"You should have made me promise _before_ you sent it. What if I say no?"

"That's your prerogative, Yusuf."

There was a pause. "Just hang onto it? I can do that. But I'm not watching your apartment forever. So come back soon if you're going to."

"Thank you."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur was not pleased. That was abundantly clear from the way he frowned when he saw Eames, and the way he stood in the doorway, arms outstretched against the doorframe, so that Eames couldn't come into the hotel room.

"What the hell, Eames? What's going on?"

"Are you going to let me in?"

"Why haven't done your thing yet?"

Eames reached out and gave Arthur a shove. Arthur's grip on the doorframe broke and Eames brushed past him into the room.

"I'm not going to 'do my thing,' Arthur. In fact, I don't think I'm ever going to forge someone for you again. It's over."

Arthur let the door slam and followed Eames into the room.

"Does that mean you want me to call Cobb when we wake up?"

Eames laughed. It was good to hear his own laugh in a dream. It was nice to be himself sometimes, and not have to focus on maintaining an illusion.

"Let's be reasonable. Do you really think I couldn't stop you from making that call? Think about it, Arthur. Are you that sure you could take me in a fight?"

Arthur looked at him, dumbstruck. He obviously never expected this.

Eames smiled and took off his jacket, laying it aside.

"You know," Eames said, "blackmail is a gamble, really. You have to weigh everything out. For one thing, you have to make sure whatever you're threatening to expose is worse than what you're asking for.

"Of course I don't want you calling Cobb. But I don't think he's the sort to try to have me killed, either, and I can fix my mistakes. But this? This whole thing about serving your whims? It's getting very tedious."

Eames walked over the window. He wanted to let his words sink in.

It was a dark, clear night outside, and all the buildings were lit up. He wondered if this was a real city, or just something from Arthur's imagination. From this view, it was difficult to tell.

What he really focused on, though, was Arthur's reflection in the glass. Arthur walked over to the nightstand and pulled something out his pocket. Eames looked over his shoulder and scoffed when he saw what it was.

"Just because you don't like how this is going doesn't mean it's not your dream."

At the sound of Eames's voice, Arthur's hand twitched and his die slipped out of his fingers and onto the nightstand. He quickly picked it up and put it back in his pocket without pausing to look at it.

"I'm being cautious," Arthur said.

"Bit late to start, isn't it? That's another thing: if you're going to blackmail someone, you can't make yourself vulnerable."

Arthur's lip curled up in a sneer. "Never realized you were an expert on this."

Normally, Arthur's condescension might have annoyed him. But he knew it was just a way for Arthur to overcompensate.

Eames shook his head and turned back to the window. "I _am_ a better blackmailer than you are."

In the reflection, Arthur remained by the nightstand. Slowly, he reached for the handle on the top drawer, and inched it open.

In the moment it took for Eames to turn around, Arthur pulled out a Glock and aimed it Eames's chest. When Eames halted, Arthur put the gun against his own head.

"Put it down," Eames said. But he knew Arthur wouldn't be swayed by that. Arthur knew exactly what he was doing, and Eames knew what he was doing.

Eames rushed forward, ramming his shoulder into Arthur's midsection and wrapping his arms around his waist. Arthur fell back on the bed with a grunt, and Eames pinned his right arm to be bed.

"Let go of the gun."

"Fuck you."

Arthur tried to land a few punches with his free hand, but Eames trapped his arm under his knee. When Arthur realized Eames had him pinned down, he lifted his head and bit into Eames's arm.

Eames hissed in pain, but Arthur had gotten little more than a mouthful of cotton sleeve.

"Come on," Eames said. "Let go."

Arthur didn't move. Eames squeezed Arthur's wrist, digging his nails into Arthur's skin. Arthur arched his back but finally loosened his grip on the gun just barely. It wasn't a surrender, but it was enough for Eames to pry it from his hand.

"I was just going to wake myself up," Arthur said as Eames got off him.

"What? And leave early? I thought you liked making the most our time together."

Arthur laughed humorlessly. "Don't be obtuse."

Eames sat down at the table in the corner. He turned the gun over in his hands while he caught his breath. He wondered if Arthur had kept it hidden away all the times they were in this dream.

Arthur sat up on the bed and turned to face Eames. He started to touch his wrist where Eames had gripped it, but stopped with his hand in midair.

"I’m sorry," he said, "okay? I had an opportunity and I took it. You would have done the same thing in my shoes."

Eames knew he wasn't just talking about the gun.

"I highly doubt that, actually. You have issues, Arthur. Not that I don't, but at least I'm not addicted to dream sex."

Arthur winced. "I’m not _addicted_ to anything. This just isn't something you can put out a personal ad for, is it? So what am I supposed to do? Ask around in the business? Try to hire an extractor to sleep with me in a dream? I'm not going to...humiliate myself like that. Why are you _smiling_?"

Eames had barely realized he was. Now he chuckled. "Because, if you say one word about me to Cobb, to anyone, I'm going to tell them what you've been doing. Is that humiliating enough for you?"

"You don't have proof."

Eames shrugged. "Do I really need it? But I have plenty of evidence. I kept all the pictures you gave me. Some of them have your handwriting on the back. I also have all those notes you wrote. You know, the ones where you talk at great length about what you want me to do for you?"

"What notes?" Arthur asked, blinking. "I never wrote you any notes."

"No, so I wrote them. Plenty of handwriting samples to work from. Think I got it down pretty good. It's not really falsifying evidence if it's based on the truth, is it?"

Arthur finally had the sense to look shaken. He gripped the edge of the mattress with white knuckles.

"I'll give it all to Cobb," Eames said. "Or everyone you've ever worked with, for that matter. It's more embarrassing for you than me, love. I think it'll overshadow what you've got on me."

Arthur didn't try to argue. Maybe he was starting to understand the position he was in.

"I can't believe you're doing this. . ." Arthur murmured.

"Like I said, I've got evidence. I have copies of everything. They've been sent somewhere safe. If anything happens to me – and I mean anything, if I get hit by a bus leaving your apartment tonight – it will get out."

Arthur's gaze shot back up. "That's hardly fair. With your lifestyle, it's only a matter of time before someone decides to shoot you. And I get punished for that?"

"It's insurance. I'll remove the threat in a few months, if you're good. But face it, Arthur, your career as a blackmailer is over. At least as far as I'm concerned."

Arthur scowled at him.

A couple minutes went by without a word. Arthur stared at the gun in Eames's hands.

Finally, Arthur said, "Look, I understand. You're upset." He leaned forward and gestured to Eames and the gun. "I'd understand if you wanted revenge."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Who said anything about revenge?"

"Nobody. I'm just saying, if you were planning to get revenge, could you do it in the dream? That would be fair. Maybe I'd deserve it. I just don't want this to get messy when we wake up. There's no reason for that."

"I think 'messy' is a bit of an understatement."

Arthur kept watching the gun like he expected to get shot.

"But I'm not upset anymore, actually," Eames said. "I don't want revenge."

That was partially true. Eames hadn't thought much about revenge, though maybe that was what this was, at its most basic level. He enjoyed turning the tables too much for it to be simple self-preservation.

That didn't mean he wanted to hurt Arthur. At least not in any way Arthur could imagine. But it didn't make Eames the better man, and he knew that. He wasn't being altruistic, and what he was doing was possibly worse.

He didn't actually know what Arthur's issues were, if he was becoming too dependent on dream sensations or not. If he was, then encouraging it was probably cruel.

But Eames had messed around in people's minds before, and he wasn't sorry about it now.

Eames lifted the gun and brought it near his own head. "I'll tell you what. I can shoot myself. I'll wake up, leave your apartment peacefully, and you won't have to see me again. We'll call it even. Ask me to shoot myself."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You have the gun. Do whatever you want."

"There's no point in staying here if we're not going to do what we came here for. So either you stay, you walk out, or tell me to use the gun."

"Are you crazy? I'm not going out there. Your projections will be everywhere."

That was probably why Arthur had never left the hotel room during these dreams. He _was_ cautious, at least selectively.

"Then the gun, I suppose. Unless you'd rather stick to the original plan," Eames said.

Arthur didn't say anything at first. He opened and closed his mouth a few times in false starts. Finally, he said, "Fuck. You can't be serious."

"I bet you don't actually care if I forge myself into someone else for you or not."

"It's not a matter of caring," Arthur said. "I just like you better when you're acting like someone other than yourself."

"Well, I'm the one you've been fucking all this time. And it seems a shame that I'll have never have gotten a chance to get something out of all this. Not that you're completely horrible in bed, but you have been pretty selfish haven't you? Funny, I thought you were all about reciprocity these days."

Arthur stared at him.

"Reciprocity, Arthur? Look, just ask me to shoot myself and I'll be gone. Otherwise, we can do what we planned, with modifications. You can make it up to me. Maybe I'll even discard my insurance policy a little sooner."

Arthur cocked his head. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Eames waited. When Arthur didn't say anything more, he set down the gun and reached for his fly.

"Why?" Arthur asked.

"Because I don't hold a grudge. You want it, don't you?"

Arthur didn't respond. But his ears turned red while he watched Eames's hands like they were hypnotic.

"I get to decide what we do, then," Eames said.

Arthur blinked, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Can't complain, can I?"

"I guess not. I mean, no one else is lining up to do this with you, are they? So why don't you get on your knees?"

He wasn't sure if Arthur would. But Arthur slid off the bed and onto the floor. He shuffled over on his knees, settling between Eames's legs while Eames pulled his cock out. Arthur looked at it, and then up at Eames's face.

"I'm only doing this because we're here anyway," Arthur said. "And because I want us to be even."

"You tell yourself that."

Arthur looked like he wanted to retort, but instead he leaned forward and opened his mouth. Eames felt the warm wetness of Arthur's tongue against his cock.

It was far from the best blow job Eames had ever had. Arthur's technique was too clumsy, and he made himself gag when he tried to take too much of Eames's cock in his mouth at once.

But once he paced himself, he wasn't half bad. Maybe he'd even done it before. Eames leaned back in his chair and watched Arthur's head bob up and down.

Arthur lowered one of his arms and fumbled with his own belt and fly. His sucking and licking faltered while he put a hand down the front of his briefs.

After a minute, Eames sucked in his breath and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. He was going to come if Arthur kept at it, and they still had a good while left.

"All right, all right, enough of that. That was good..."

Arthur sat back on his heels. His fly hung open and his erection pressed against his briefs.

"Why don't you get out of your clothes?" Eames asked, nodding at Arthur's trousers.

Arthur stood and, as if by rote, began to strip. Eames leaned back with his hands folded on his chest and watched. When Arthur was naked, he crawled onto the bed.

Eames got up, retrieved a small bottle of lube from his jacket pocket, and tossed it on the bed beside Arthur. He quickly began to undress.

"You ever been fucked before?" Eames asked.

Arthur didn't answer. He was idly stroking himself and looking at the bottle of lube.

Eames climbed on the bed beside him.

"First, give me your watch," he ordered with an outstretched, expectant hand.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. "Why?"

"Because I'm sick of you watching the time when we fuck. It's rude."

Arthur sighed and undid the clasp. He handed the watch over. Eames set it aside and nudged Arthur onto his stomach.

When Eames opened the cap on the lube, Arthur looked up and said, "I've never done this before."

"Not surprised."

"It'll hurt. I've never hurt you." He sounded almost casual about it, like it was something of little concern. Whether he really felt that way was anyone's guess.

Eames spread some lube on his fingers. "It's not going to hurt. Not if you relax."

Arthur pressed his head into the pillow. He didn't make a sound when Eames pushed a finger into him.

"You'll like this," Eames said. "It's what you want, isn't it? You were the one who wanted me to stay."

Arthur buried his face even deeper, but he seemed to spread his legs a little further. Maybe Eames imagined that.

"You know what your problem is?" Eames asked.

"Enlighten me," Arthur said, his voice muffled against the pillow.

"You like how heightened everything is in a dream. How intense it is. But in order to really feel that, you need to let go. Just let yourself experience and not worry about controlling."

Arthur lifted his head. "That's stupid. You need to maintain control of the dream. Otherwise, you can get lost in it."

Eames had had some strange bedroom conversations before, but he never thought he'd hear Arthur's philosophy on safe shared dreaming in the middle of finger-fucking Arthur.

Then again, a few months ago, he wouldn’t have expected any of this.

"But you're not in control now," he said.

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, because Arthur's body tensed up. There was a very real possibility that Arthur would still decide he wanted no part of this.

Eames didn't know if it was desire that made Arthur stay, or pride. He could see Arthur doing this simply to prove he wasn't intimidated.

But Eames guessed it was a combination of the two.

He spent a few more minutes getting Arthur as relaxed as possible, before climbing on top of him and pressing their bodies together and pressing Arthur into the mattress.

Arthur sucked in his breath and tensed when Eames pushed into him, but when Eames asked if it hurt, he responded with a very resolute "No."

Arthur's back was warm and sweaty against his chest. He kissed the back of Arthur's neck just below the hairline.

He hadn't planned to kiss Arthur at all. He didn't want to hurt him, but he didn't want to give him anything tender or _nice_ either. Just a quick, hard fuck. But Arthur shivered underneath him, and Eames kissed him again and again, on his neck and shoulders. He snapped his hips with a force that drove grunts and moans from Arthur's throat.

Arthur lifted his face off the pillow. His breathing was fast and rough. When he shuddered and cried out, Eames thought at first that he'd hurt him. But then he realized that Arthur had come.

After that, Arthur was completely relaxed. Pliable, even.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When it was done, Arthur started to get up, but Eames stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back down beside him.

He looped an arm around Arthur's waist.

Arthur cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse, even though he'd barely made a sound. "How much time is there?"

"I have no idea." And he wasn't going to check.

Arthur didn't respond for a minute. Then he said, "I'm sorry I blackmailed you."

He didn't sound sorry, except maybe that it hadn't turned out like he planned – and maybe not even that. Eames found this didn't bother him. He didn't expect anything more. If Arthur was more remorseful, Eames would have felt bad for playing him like he had.

As it was, they could play each other, and that was fair enough.

"Wasn't exactly an ordeal though, was it?" Eames asked.

"No." Arthur paused and added, "What now?"

"Like I said, we're even. I don't really care to get into an endless cycle of blackmail and revenge."

"We did what you wanted. Are you happy?"

"Oh, very."

There was something being left unsaid, and Eames thought he knew what it was. It was just a matter of whether or not Arthur would say it.

After a few minutes, he did.

"Are we going to do this again?"

Eames had to think about that. Finally, he sighed. "I don't know," he said. "You realize, of course, that if you ever want to do this again, you'd have to convince me with something far sweeter than blackmail. And even then, can't make any promises."

"That's fine," Arthur said. "I don't know if I want it."

Eames wasn't convinced of that at all.

It was a funny thing. Eames had wanted to get Arthur out of his hair for over a month. He had better things to do with his time: there was work waiting for him, and a nice place in Mombasa that he thought he missed.

Though the thought of leaving Arthur desperate and alone, while sweet in some cruel way, wasn't as enticing as he'd expected.

So what the hell? Maybe they'd do this again. Or maybe they'd never see each other again. It wouldn't kill Arthur to be subject o Eames's whims for a while.

Waking up was sudden. One moment, he was holding onto Arthur, and the next he was jerking awake in Arthur's living room. Arthur was already awake, and wouldn't look at him, having regained some shame upon waking up.

Eames saw himself out.


End file.
